


To Protect Confidentiality

by orphan_account



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-15 04:55:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5772130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, people die. Sometimes, family mourns. Otherwise, you can safely assume they're on a beachfront property, enjoying a cold drink, while you catch the first flight off the planet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is sort of a starting point while I tease out some things to do with this conflict. Mostly I just wanted Cutter being a jerk to Eiffel, here. 
> 
> How often this will update, I can't make promises about.

Douglas Cutter sat at the table in a small, windowless room. Only a single lightbulb held him back from complete darkness, and a mirror on one wall was big enough to reflect the whole, barren scene. He glanced at it, then down to his fingers drumming on the tabletop. The handcuffs cinched just too tightly around his wrists clinked on the plastic.

He looked back up to the mirror. He’d seen enough cop shows to know what that meant. Someone had to be back there. But he wasn’t exactly up against mall security guards, and he wasn’t sure what they had planned for him.

Well, they could leave him to stew all they wanted. A watched pot would never boil, a watched man would never… break down crying in an empty room from the stress of supposed isolation. He laughed nervously to himself, and, no doubt, for his unseen onlookers. This time, he threw the mirror a dirty look; he at least hoped that hadn’t satisfied anyone too much with that display.

This had to be better than facing the problem, at least. Yeah. He just needed to think happy thoughts, and he’d get through this just fine. _Soon, you’ll be facing interrogation with a pair of pliers and a hammer, and when they’re done with you, they’ll probably melt the tools down to hide the evidence. Buuut you’re not there yet. Rejoice!_

He slid his elbows across the table, stuck his hands in the air, and thunked his head down between them.

Time passed. He couldn’t have measured how much, in part because he only spent about twenty-five percent of it definitively awake. The rest he split between watching the white lines that fizzed behind his eyelids and uneasy dreams. The sound of the door opening blended into one of these, and he didn’t realize he had company until someone spoke.

“Oh, Doug. It’s been such a long time; I’m just delighted to see you!”

Douglas jolted upright, and squinted into the renewed light of the room. Oh, boy. On one hand, this was good news. On the other hand, it meant that things were serious, and he had to lift a foot to catch the fact that they’d probably sent his brother, of all people, just to throw him off. That left him with one leg to stand on and poor balance. His brother hadn’t even done anything yet, and sweat already dripped down the back of his neck.

Doug had heard just how well his brother taken to the job. He was just great at it, and he enjoyed it. Doug knew now, better than ever, what that meant about him. Still, he had to try. He had to answer, first of all. He swallowed, and said, “Hi. Uh. Good to see you, too.”

“Really? Is it? Hm.” The man smiled, and pulled out the plush office chair across from Doug.

“Sure.” Doug said, gaining a shrill edge to his voice as he went, “I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather see right now, in fact.”

No one specific, anyway. A team of counter-corporate commandos come to rescue an innocent - well, okay, currently benign - prisoner would have been more to his taste. He squeezed his eyes shut. _Keep it together. You can make it through this in one piece!_

“Right. I’m glad to hear it. That’s the way it should be, after all.” The man laid a file out on the table, setting down one end first and lowering it carefully the rest of the way. He flipped it open, and skimmed the first paper. As he read, he murmured, “Family has to stick together.”

Doug shrunk down in his chair, which was, as he was suddenly more aware, a folding, metal contraption that seemed like it would take a bite out of him if he shifted wrong. He nodded. “Yup. Family. Pretty important. So like… you wouldn’t want to be involved in, say, torturing them for one eensy-weensy mistake, right?”

May as well be direct. There were no favors to win here, and he couldn’t bear the thought of dragging this out. If he wasn’t going to make it through intact, he’d at least spare himself a little pain.

“Of course.” Cutter smiled. “You’re always in my thoughts, Doug. Very important to me. That’s why you’re here at all. Or did _you_ forget that part?”

“No, no… Pretty hard to forget something like that!” Doug replied quickly.“Hey, you’re practically the-”

“Mmm. I don’t want to hear it, honestly. Honestly, Doug,” Cutter sighed, and looked up from his paperwork. “You at least know why you’re here, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“That was a very large, but thankfully very private, mistake you made. I’m afraid we can’t afford to keep you on.” He clicked open a pen, circled something on the page, and nodded to himself. “Literally. Any fallout from the mess you made would cost us millions.”

“So…? I guess I’m fired, then.” Doug hunched inward, and grinned down at the table. “Sorry, bro. I know you just wanted to help.”

“Of course. You’re my big brother!” Cutter gasped. “Unfortunately, we’ve talked it over, and… We can’t afford to let you live, either. If word got out, or this got around to, ahem, certain channels… The risk is just too great.”

“Oh.” Doug swallowed hard. “But… look, I mean, I know… just listen, listen for a second… You have to know, right? Why this is a bad idea? I know you’re smart, smarter than me-”

“Why, thank you. It’s always nice to be appreciated.” Cutter laughed, and shook his head. “No, Doug. I think it’s you who should be doing the listening.” His gaze flicked down to the file. “For quite a long time, in fact.”

“What? But you just said you were going to _kill_ me!”

“No. I said Douglas Cutter couldn’t live. But… Hmm. It says here…” He lifted the file in front of him, folded as if it were a newspaper, and arched his eyebrows. “Goddard Futuristics is preparing an expedition to deep space for research purposes. They’re looking for a communications offer.”

Doug digested the information. Cutter seemed content to allow this for as long as he required. Maybe he could just consider it forever; that seemed like a good plan. Steadier than anything else he’d found so far.

But Cutter shifted, one hand tapping against the face of his watch. Doug ran his tongue over the roof of his dry mouth, and swallowed again. No more beating around the bush. Peachy.

“I… see. And what's a communications officer do?” He asked.

“Spend a lot of time, alone, in a small room, listening for signs of alien intelligence.”

“Alright. So, what do the weekly classifieds have to do with me, practically a zombie?” Doug leaned forward. If showing enthusiasm for this prospect would keep him from being a candidate for “pin the bullet in the screaming guy’s head,” he was all for it.

“Douglas Cutter might die in this room, but, oh, we can do something so simple without making a mess.” He leaned back in his chair, balanced his elbows on the seats, and spread his arms in a great show of benevolence. “You just… don’t leave this room. The man who does leave will be that communications officer. Think of your classified ad; it reads like this: ‘Wanted: one man to start a new life in the majesty of outer space!’ Isn’t that a great opportunity? Though I know you never really wanted to be an astronaut...”

“No, that was all you. Funny how that works. Still, it’s… better than…” Doug went on slowly. He was going to say that it was better than dying, but he didn’t even want to go there at this point. He just figured it’d be more fun to rot in zero gravity than underground. Something like that. Instead, he finished, “Uh. Better than my old job. Exciting, I bet.”

“Good. I’m glad you see it that way.” He spun the file around, and slid it over to Doug, then rested the pen beside it. “Then it’s settled! Sign here.”

Doug picked up the pen. “Sure. What exactly am I signing again? Not that I’m, you know, not going to sign…” He just needed some idea of exactly how screwed he was going to be once he was done.

Cutter chuckled. “Your waiver and nondisclosure agreements. Oh, but first… We’d better make sure everything matches your new personnel file. Let’s see… Who should you be reborn as?”

“Solo? Kirk?” Doug suggested. “O’Neill?”

“Hmm. No, and not very inspired, for you. I bet we can come up with something more fitting.” Cutter stared at his brother, and then, after a moment, clapped his hands once. “The scope of your mistakes was just… towering. We’ll call you Eiffel, how about that?”

He laughed at his own joke. Doug smiled, like, well, like a person being renamed by his own brother so he could go into exile and avoid retribution.

“Eiffel? That's kind of... something.”

“Yes. Perfect! Douglas Eiffel, communications officer-to-be of the U.S.S. Hephaestus Station! It really rolls of the tongue, I think. And it will roll off yours, too, for the next few years, since I know you like having a tongue.”

“Okay, okay… geez…” Douglas Cutter began to write. He signed: "E-I-F-F-E-L," and Douglas Eiffel put the pen down. Then, he sighed, “So, about the whole space station thing… He-phee-stas? He.. what? Do I get a mission briefing? When does this happen?”

But his brother had already flipped the file shut, stood up, tucked the paperwork under his arm. He gave Doug a cheery wave. “Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to learn how to pronounce it.”

Cutter stopped, and looked his brother up and down, then nodded. His smile never wavered. Doug could practically hear the blade of “former” coming down on their relationship, and he couldn’t say he’d miss the guy. Still, he injected as much sincerity into his voice as he could muster, “Sure. I’m looking forward to it.”

Cutter left. Eiffel slumped back in his chair and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. The cuffs stung against his face. He’d felt himself shaking, but he hadn’t realized just how badly until now; the thin chains jangled quietly between his wrists. What had he just agreed to?  
  
Saving his own life, apparently, at the cost of the same.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so in my quest for angst, I have stumbled upon a rather odd possibility for what, exactly, Douglas Cutter would have been doing. I don't know that it makes a whole lot of sense, in terms of how businesses or weapons operate, but I think it's safe to say Goddard Futuristics isn't exactly scrupulous.
> 
> This takes place before the previous chapter. This is how they got to the previous chapter. Since the incidents are fairly self-contained, I'm leaving it as is, for now, but when it's done I may reorganize everything.

A job’s a job, they said. “They” were usually people who had cushy jobs, perched up high on ladders where they could kick whoever got too close.

Still, it was true: a job was a job. Everyone had to have one. Had to pay the bills, had to put food on the table. Even if it was a table for one.

Douglas Cutter did not have an easy time with this whole employment thing, and so, other little details of life - eating, for example, and paying rent - also eluded him. It wasn’t a lack of intelligence. That’s what his friends, the all-powerful “they,” would have said. He wanted to tell them they were wrong, but he didn't exactly have much proof yet. Sometimes, he felt like a kid tugging on mommy's pants, saying, "Look what I can do!" and then proudly picking his nose.

What he had, for now, was a weird gig that his little brother had hooked him up with. His brother, a totally different story. Everywhere that little Dougie went, his pure lamb of a brother was sure to pinch his nose, for one thing. This had made the job offer sudden and strange, and in fact, more than a little nervewracking.

But Doug’s choices were limited here. So he’d shrugged and agreed, before even hearing the job description, safe in the knowledge that when he got off work, he could melt into the couch until morning and not have to worry that someone would dump him into the street while he slept.  

He’d known it wouldn’t be savory. He'd be collecting debts, and he’d been on the other end of that often enough. It wasn’t something he’d have put on a resume before, but it might be useful now. He knew all the tricks, all the ways to make someone squirm. One day, he promised himself, he’d raid a toy store, pull all the heads off the hobby-horses, and distribute them in the beds of his victims.

But for the time being, he came into work with a sense of dread and a cigarette improperly stubbed out behind his ear. He wasn’t the only one, at least as far as the smoking went.

The most important thing he learned, on his very first day, when he showed up bright and early with a new pencil pouch and a juicebox, was that he didn’t work for Goddard Futuristics. Nope. Nuh-uh. He worked for _the boss_ , who also didn’t work for Goddard Futuristics, and who didn’t receive orders about people who hadn’t paid bills on Goddard tech in an unacceptable amount of time.

The most unexpected thing he learned: it was fieldwork.

They just gave him a list, every day. The list had names on it. Next to the names were phone numbers, emails, addresses. It was the last item that concerned him. People higher up on that ladder dealt with most of the information. By the time it came to Doug’s department, there were other concerns. Concerns that meant he went around with a gun on his hip. That sense of dread? The one from earlier, the one clotted in his heart like greasy cheese? That hung around, too.

He pawed at the grip of his weapon when he got anxious, which made it worse. He figured it was mostly for show, but if it was meant to make him feel safe, it did the opposite. Some night, he considered just taking the bullets out. He couldn’t even tell if the safety was on, and it seemed like it would be dangerous to ask his boss.

He didn’t like doing this. That was important. That meant he could still be a good person, right? It wasn’t like he was some kind of sadist who took any pleasure in this, in taking advantage of people like him, who’d made mistakes and gotten in too far over their heads. And it wasn’t like he hurt anyone - sure, he was a stringy greenbean of a man, but he had a partner who looked like they carried their car to the gym. Mostly, it was an intimidation game, and the sight of actual people produced money more quickly than he suspected was legally possible.

Twice, he hit someone. Once in self-defense, when his partner was digging around in the car and someone thought they could slip past Doug if they could get in a one-hit K.O. The second time, he had his own shiny-new shiner from his partner already.

A few days before, his partner had instructed Doug to "make the terms of the agreement nice and plain" to their quarry. Doug refused, more out of shock than anything, replying with only a sputtered, "What the hell?"

His partner took care of it. Back in the car, he and Doug had a short talk about saving face, and the point left an impression on him that lasted for the better part of a week.

So when his partner had decided that force was necessary again, Doug wasn't the kind of man to push his luck. They backed each other up. Partners-in-perfectly-legal-activities had to stick together.

So, no, not a very fun job, but the paycheck cleared every time. After all, when you’re not paid by Goddard Futuristics, you have a lot of money behind you.

* * *

 

It was a relief when his partner had the day off. Rounds were rounds. Everyone else was busy, so the stringbean was going it alone. A good chance for some peace and quiet. Maybe he'd take a long lunch. Hey, maybe he'd do about half the list, just to hopefully have something to show, and call it quits. No one needed to know, and _no one_ would pay him, anyway. He grinned to himself as he slammed the car door shut to face his morning's destination.

Today, the first name on his list was, funnily enough, Doug. Douglas Williamson.

Dang, Douglas Cutter felt for the guy. With a name like that, Mr. Douglas Williamsonsquire III or whatever had probably lost it all at some point, or his family had. This was going to suck for both of them.

The building was a patchwork of old, stained brick and clean, curtained-off windows. He stared up at it. A curtain on the second floor was barely parted. He couldn’t see anything inside; the room looked dark, and yet as he looked, the curtain dropped shut. One corner of his mouth opened, and a short laugh came out.

This lseemed just peachy. Maybe, if he was going to slack off anyway, he should skip this one in particular.

Unfortunately, before he could make his escape, the door opened. A man in a suit looked Doug up and down. Something about the way the guy’s hair was parted reminded Doug of the curtains, like he was trying to hide encroaching baldness. He said, “What can we do for you?”

“Uhh… Well, I’m looking for Douglas Williamson?” Doug said. He cleared his throat, and tried again, “It’s… really urgent that I speak with him.”

“I see. And just what is this urgent business?”

The guy looked at him like he was a cockroach, or worse. Doug felt blood in his cheeks. He tried to stand straighter, and pushed his shoulders back into a parody of military posture. “I’m with collections. Again, it’s very important.”

“Right. You may as well come in, then. I’m _sure_ Mr. Williamson will want to deal with you personally.”

“Oookay,” Doug replied, and stepped through the door. The man led him down a spacious and well-lit hallway. They passed several conference rooms and offices, but ended up at what looked like little more than a storage room with a table.

“Have a seat, please,” the man said, and left. Doug did not have a seat. He stood and fidgeted with a bottle of cleaning fluid. He read the label absentmindedly, considering the pronunciation of chemicals. His other hand rested on the gun.

When the door opened, he jumped. A different man entered, and gave Doug a similar appraising look. He said, “So, they sent a new face this time? Well, then.”

“Yeah. Hi. I guess you’ve been through some of this before…” Doug knew he was never the first point of contact, but something about the man’s familiarity with the process was uncomfortable. Even he didn’t know that much about what actually went into this. “Are you Doug?”

“No. I’m sorry, but Doug’s busy at the moment. As we keep trying to tell you... people.”

“Oh. Well, I really need to speak to Doug. He’s the name I have,” he replied. He had a script, sort of. Where this situation was concerned, it was pretty short, and he could tell in his gut that it would be better not to improvise here. His chances of getting anywhere were plummeting by the second as it was.

“And he is not interested, as we’ve said. Repeatedly. I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can tell you.”

Doug should have accepted this. He knew better than to make things up; he should have quit while he was ahead, because that was the day’s plan, anyway. But once, just once, it would have been nice to do something right, something literally no one ever would have expected from him. So he puffed up his chest again, and said, “No, look. We’ve been trying to get ahold of you, and we’ve been really polite. So… It would be better for everyone if we could just take care of this quietly.”

“I see,” said the man. Then, there was a knife in his hand. Doug couldn’t be positive that it hadn’t been there before, but he saw it first as it was already halfway to his throat. He pinned Doug to a shelf by the shoulder. “I’m afraid we don’t appreciate threats, Mister…?”

“Doug! Oh-" That was not information he was supposed to give out. "Hey, hey, names… Overrated, right? You could call me Rosie and I’d still smell…” Blood pulsed in his ears, and his hands trembled. The metal shelving cut into his back.

That escalated quickly.

“...Like you haven’t bathed in a week? Right. You seemed very interested in names a minute ago,” the man muttered. His knife shifted closer.

Doug hissed involuntarily. “Listen, I didn’t want trouble. I just… I needed to, you know… You know…”

“I do know. I know you’re persistent. I think it’s time to send a message back to your employers.”

“O-oh? Like a friendly letter? I’m totally cool with playing messenger boy!” Doug smiled a water, hopeless smile.

“No. But we do need you able to deliver it. It will sting, I promise.” The man drew the knife away, and raised it to Doug’s face.

The world switched off. He jerked backwards, knocking bottles down around them, and the knife glanced off his shoulder. His other hand had dragged the weapon from its holster in a panic. It shook badly, but he squeezed the trigger. So that answered that, about the safety. Definitely not on, never was.

He couldn’t say, though, that the gun just went off by mistake. He shot this poor guy. He pulled the trigger. Douglas Cutter just put a bullet into a man’s stomach. He dropped the gun. He ran.

He didn’t have anything in mind, no destination, no goal. No thoughts, just an image, a burst of red, a pain in his shoulder. He’d gotten lucky, in all this. It wasn’t that deep. It stung, as promised, but the bleeding stopped soon enough, leaving only a dried brown crust on his shoulder. Stitches would have been nice, but he wasn’t going anywhere where they’d ask questions like, “Who are you?” or “What happened?”

He drove for a while, but he ended up back at his apartment a few hours later. He sat down on the couch, and stared blankly at the black TV screen. So much for working things out on his own. He flopped backward, and picked up his phone.

Sooner or later, the consequences would come for him. When they did, they’d find him eating his last paycheck’s worth in pizza.

* * *

 

Edward Cutter had a headache.

“Mhm. Mhm. And he survived? Well, what did his statement have- They found the weapon at the scene, with his fingerprints? Of course, of course, I’m sure it was a simple slip-up and he just happened to forget- Fine, but there’s nothing that can be traced back to- No, I’m not being sentimental. If I was sentimental, I wouldn’t have volunteered him for this position, now would I?”

He leaned back in his chair, stretching out and holding the phone away from his ear briefly. When he tuned back in, they were still going on.

“Well, I don’t really care, do I? He’s your employee. But you’re right, we shouldn’t waste resources. I’ll figure something out, don’t you worry your pretty little head about it!”

Edward tapped the “end call” button once, and set the phone down on his desk. He opened up the email program on his computer, and leaned back again, lacing his fingers over his chest. He dictated, “Dear Mr. Monroe, I’m afraid we’ve had a problem with one of our contract workers. Douglas Cutter. I’ll send over the relevant information, but I just wanted to confirm that he’s an expendable asset.

“So, with that being the case, I thought we might discuss ways to get more use out of expending him. I know we have several programs that require a single-use person, so to speak.” He smiled to himself. So to speak honestly, as opposed to some absurd figure of language. “I am sorry about the inconvenience this will cause, which is why I’m trying so hard to make amends. If you’re interested, get back to me. Thanks. Edward Cutter.”

He clicked send, and took a deep breath. Goodness gracious, it was turning out to be a busy day. He should have known this would happen; in fact, he had known. He had recognized that this outcome was inevitable from the start. He knew that something like this would happen, in part because Doug had failed to notice and hadn’t run in the other direction immediately.

 _Some people could always be relied upon._ It was a thought that brought Edward comfort. He did so love his brother. It was almost a shame that he wouldn't be around much longer.


End file.
